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She could not blame them. She wanted nothing more than to sleep too, but she had another hour of hearings to suffer through.I can manage another starry-eyed dreamer,she thought,dismissing the Madrentine diplomat in front of her with a wave of her jeweled hand.
He bowed low and left the throne room, clearly dissatisfied. The Queen cared little for the whims of Madrence and forgot him as soon as he disappeared, leaving the space before her dais empty and waiting for the next person brave enough to approach.
Erida blinked, surprised when not one but two men approached the throne. Most petitioners were easy to read, by either the heraldry on their clothing or the set of their faces. Not so with these two. One was some kind of priest, cloaked in scarlet, his hood thrown back to show pale skin and white-blond hair. He walked with his hands folded, hidden in his sleeves. She guessed him to be a dedicant of Syrek, Galland’s patron god, though his robes were unfamiliar from any service she’d ever attended.
The other had no heraldry and no immediate look. He was pale with dark red hair—definitely of the northern continent, but she could not place him further. He had come far, if his muddy boots and dirty cloak were anything to be believed. His hands were gloved, but she wagered his nails were dirty.A soldier,she guessed, judging by his gait and the hard set of his jaw, the squaring of his shoulders.Some captain from an outpost, drunk on glory, victorious in an insignificant skirmish somewhere, and now he thinks to conquer me too.
The sword beneath his cloak gave her pause. As he walked, the folds of his clothing parted, and she glimpsed the wink of jewels. Ruby and amethyst, red and purple.No simple soldier carries a sword like that,she thought.
He did not kneel like the others, and neither did the priest. A cord of tension drew through the room, her knights rousing in their armor.
“Welcome, petitioners,” Erida said aloud, looking between them as she recited the words hammered into her skull. “What would you ask of the Lion?”
The man met her gaze slowly, raising his face. Even in the throne room, well lit by many torches and chandeliers, his eyes were dark, black as jet but without its gleam. They seemed to swallow the room. In spite of herself, Erida felt a pull to them.
“I have nothing to ask, and the world to offer. I would give you my hand in marriage, and I would give you the realm entire.” He reached out, and even from a distance, she thought she could feel his fingers. “I am Taristan of Old Cor. I carry Spindleblood in my veins, a Spindleblade in my fist. Take them both.”
For a moment, Erida felt fear. Pure terror.
She had heard that name before, from the lips of a squire with blood on his hands.
Her well-practiced mask never wavered, as good as a shield now. She hid behind it, taking even, steady breaths. Only a few seconds passed before her fear melted like iron in the forge.
It took shape again, becoming steel.
Then there was only resolve. A plan.
A choice.
Thanks to the antics of the Spindleblood mouse, the squire, the lumbering Elder, andwhoeverthat woman was, Erida’s wedding ceremony had to be moved from the Syrekom. The Queen of Galland couldn’t very well be married surrounded by broken glass, with evidence of catastrophe looming over everything. The court would already be talking about the feast for weeks. She didn’t need to throw any more kindling on that fire.
Luckily, there was no lack of cathedrals within Ascal. The Konrada was close enough and grand enough for a royal wedding. The Queen had an army of servants at her disposal, not to mention an actual army, and they worked tirelessly through the night to prepare. They hung the spire of the Konrada with new banners, golden as a sunbeam, and scattered roses throughout the sanctuary. They polished marble, cleaned windows, dusted pews, and shooed off the beggars at spearpoint. In the morning, the procession from the palace made for a breathtaking sight. While the court paraded over the Bridge of Valor, the citizens of Ascal crowded along the neighboring canals, craning for a glimpse.
Erida was difficult to miss, alone within a circle of knights, her cream veil trailing a full twenty feet behind her. The bridal crown was a pretty circlet of gold, curling with emerald vines and ruby roses. Taristan followed after her, resplendent in imperial red, a son of Old Cor in image as well as blood. He looked far from the man she’d met in the throne room, his muddy cloak exchanged for silk and brocade. But the soldier’s edge remained. No amount of finery could hide his lethal heart.
Ascal cheered for them both. In her mind, Erida cheered too.
He was the promise of empire. The promise of a husband who could give her as much as she gave him. Who held value as much as weakness. High enough to help her, low enough not to control her. A rare thing to find, for a ruling queen.
Despite theeventsof the night before, the ceremony went on without much trouble. The sun still shone; the gods still blessed the union; Lord Konegin did not attempt a coup before the vows were made. No one else dropped a chandelier or six on the court.
All in all, a success,Erida thought, eyeing the glittering crowd within the cathedral tower.
The ceremony ended in the traditional way of Galland, albeit grander than any common wedding across the kingdom. The high priest of the Godly Pantheon presented Prevail, the marriage sword of Erida’s family, and held it between them, the hilt like a standing cross. The blade was two hundred years old, too fine for war. It did not know blood. Every king and queen of Galland had married with it in hand, fingers joined together, in defiance of all that would tear them apart. Erida took it with relish, enjoying the feel of its leather grip.I am the first queen regnant to hold this sword,she thought, as Taristan’s warm hand covered her own. The high priest relinquished it, letting them hold it together. The jewels of the hilt, emeralds and diamonds, glittered beneath the stained glass of the Konrada. The gods themselves watched from their walls. Erida could feel their marble gaze.
She hoped her father was watching too.
“With this sword, you will conquer all that seeks to separate you,” the high priest said, a blessing to the couple and a prayer to the mighty Syrek. “Your allegiance is to each other and to the crown.”
Erida bowed her head first, dipping her brow to the pommel. “To you, to the crown,” she said. They were the last of her vows, the binding words. She expected to feel them like a chain around her neck. Instead there was nothing. Not joy, not fear. Nothing changed in her heart. The line she walked remained straight and true.
“To you, to the crown,” Taristan answered, lowering his own face as she straightened.
His black eyes followed her movement. His head was bare, the red of his hair shining darkly without a consort’s crown. Taristan had refused even a simple circlet. He had no use for jewels or gold. Though he had spent all night combing the city with the garrison, he did not look like it. Erida saw no circles beneath his eyes, no sharp pull of exhaustion at the edges of his face. There was only the grim shadow of failure, something they shared.For now.
And of course the four lines torn down the left side of his face. Starting below the eye, the scratches were not so deep, but they were unmistakable and refusing to fade.
He’s still handsome, at least,Erida thought, contemplating his face. The scratches did little to hide his well-boned features, more rugged than beautiful.Which is more than I can say for most.And, truly, he was a man. Not a boy playing at swords or an overgrown toddler coddled into adulthood. Taristan of Old Cor walked his own pace, self-assured, single-minded in focus. He was no stranger to blood or ambition. She’d seen it in their first meeting. She’d seen it in their second, the night before. And she saw it now, the third time, as he became her husband, rigid as a statue, determined as stone.
